


back to basics

by Sierra



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future Fish, Fluff and Humor, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Getting Together, M/M, Slice of Life, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-14 19:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sierra/pseuds/Sierra
Summary: “Pay good?”“Good enough.”Sousuke is silent for a moment. “Want to earn more?”That one was more brazen than the last. The knife in his hand feels heavier than it really is.Haru has nowhere else to look but Sousuke’s face. He wishes one of his students would develop a sense of punctuality, or that Makoto might spontaneously decide that he needs to pick Haru up from work right now so they can go for a drive and look at Christmas lights like Makoto’s been begging him to for years.Haru finds it perfectly agreeable all of a sudden.“You’re trying to solicit me.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mackerelmademedoit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackerelmademedoit/gifts).



> thank you to my support team of [iska](http://iskabee.tumblr.com/) and [agaricals](http://agaricals.tumblr.com/) for putting up with my sh-related soliloquies. ♡
> 
> this fic is a pinch-hit for **mackerelmademedoit** as part of the Otsukaresaba exchange. the prompt was souharu bonding over something unexpected. it turned into a two-parter as my fics are wont to do, haha. (also yes this is my 2nd rodeo with souharu + future fish + cooking themes, lemme live...)
> 
> that said, hope you enjoy, and please let me know if you have any thoughts! :>

“Oi, pass the pad thai.” Rin aims a kick at Sousuke’s calf when he doesn’t respond in due course. “ _Sousuke_.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His eyes are fixed to the television, so he blindly reaches out for the plastic box on the coffee table and hands it to Rin. Fingers tap his shoulder insistently, and Rin snatches up the chopsticks when he’s slow in offering them. “You could just get it yourself.”

“Don’t need to,” Rin says breezily, exuding a confidence that only being sergeant can give. “Your long fuckin’ arms have to be good for something other than scratching your own ass.”

 _Roommates mean compromis_ e, Sousuke reminds himself with a loud noise, somewhere between an exhalation and a sigh. _Boss-roommate means even more goddamn compromise. You agreed to this, your name is on the lease, and your contract doesn’t end for three years unless you transfer to Kyoto._

He knows what the hell is in Kyoto.

Mikoshibas. Twin versions of the same category five human tornado.

Sousuke feels around for the discarded chopsticks to focus on his noodles, mumbling something close to _jackass_.

Last time they ordered takeout, Rin had a change of heart at the last minute and hijacked the rest of Sousuke’s food. He’s never forgiven Rin for dousing the honey-soy chicken in hot chili sauce and proceeding to then wash it down with beer, claiming Sousuke’s taste was too sweet.

Sousuke tucks the box closer to his chest protectively. A glance at Rin reveals that he’s immersed in the pad thai, so Sousuke feels secure enough to return to being rapt in what’s unfolding on-screen. Rin has no interest in reality television but this show is Sousuke’s favourite: botched tattoos recreated into new cover ups, apprentices run crying from the shop under the harsh tutelage of the experienced artists. What amuses him most is the before and afters, a sleight of hand in the form of pictures. He doesn’t have much of an appreciation for the arts—and neither does Rin, unless shaping protein pancakes into Instagram-worthy patterns counts—but the drama is what sells it, and not so much the creative genius.

“We’re spending too much money on takeout,” Rin laments, crumpling the empty box in his hand. “We need to start making some real food around here at least a few nights a week. Don’t you think?”

“You mean me,” Sousuke mutters. “Since when the hell do you cook?”

Rin makes a noise of contention. “I work late every night!”

“Don’t accept the top job next time,” Sousuke retorts. "I can’t be bothered to make dinner from scratch every night. It’ll be cold by the time you get home, and if you don’t complain about that, it’ll be the texture or the taste or the mismatched noodles or the positioning of the fucking stars.” Every meal he’s ever made for Rin in their decade-long friendship flashes before his eyes. He throws Rin a middle finger for emphasis. “Nope.”

Rin gets up and situates himself in front of the television, a hand planted on his waist, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. “So learn to make something new. Something that tastes _good_. Something I won’t turn my nose up at.”

“Ever heard of microwavable dinners?” Sousuke asks, shifting his weight to the left to see around Rin. “They’re cheap and easy, just like you. Buy some.”

Rin’s mouth twitches but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “I’ll pay for you to go to a class.”

Sousuke snorts. “I know how to cook.”

“You know two dishes,” Rin chides. It’s true, but Sousuke isn’t giving him that bone to gnaw on. “Learn a couple more and we’ll finally have some variety in our lives.” He hums thoughtfully, runs a finger under his lip. “And a lot less credit card debt…”

That gives Sousuke pause. His gaze snaps up to Rin. “I thought we were using the corporate card to pay for food.”

“Your personal card, actually—”

“I swear to fuck, Rin.”

Food forgotten, Sousuke is on his feet on a heartbeat and halfway to garrotting Rin with his own shoelace when Rin ducks out of the way to safety, putting the couch between them. And rightly so, as Sousuke’s hands close on air and he growls under his breath.

“We’ve been eating out five times a week for six months.”

Rin scrunches his face to do the rough math in his head. “That sounds right.”

“And you’re telling me I paid for it all.”

“Technically yes,” Rin says with a tense, forced laugh, “but—are you fuckin’ Spiderman or what— _please_ spare my fucking life—“

By the time Sousuke scales the couch and tackles Rin to the floor, his yelps are loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Just as well, the noisy fucks started a bi-weekly percussion ensemble enthusiasts group a month ago with no regard for shift workers in the building. Sousuke’s sleep schedule has been fucked six ways from Sunday since. As far as he’s concerned, it’s one AM and they deserve to hear Rin’s best impression of howler monkey sex.

“Sousuke, I need to _breathe_ ,” Rin wheezes.

Sousuke shakes him a bit harder. “I’ve got you by the shoulders, fucker.”

“Oh, right.” Rin grins. “Anyway, did you forget that I buy you lunch every day?” Sousuke’s grip relents. Rin seizes the opening and follows it up with a hasty, “ _And_ your coffee. Sometimes even two! Give or take a few hundred bucks, we’re square.”

Even breathing heavily from the exertion, Rin manages to laugh. Despite the ever-present urge to smother Rin in his sleep with his own prized bamboo pillow, Sousuke joins in with a chuckle and musses Rin’s hair. He rolls off Rin with a grunt, and catches a knock on the head for it. The floor is about as inviting as the bottom of an empty coffee tin, but he has no energy to get up and relocate to the couch. Night shifts, the stresses that come with the job. A substandard diet has definitely contributed.

“If I did go to a class,” Sousuke starts, rolling his neck to look at Rin, “what do you want me to learn?”

Rin’s grin turns wolfish. The bastard always knows when he’s won. “Just more basics. We could do with leaner meat dishes—chicken, fish. Maybe even turkey if we’re feeling adventurous.”

Sousuke answers that rhetorical question stubbornly: “We’re not that adventurous.”

“No turkey,” Rin concedes. “I’ve got a place in mind, right down the road. I know the guy who runs it from the gym pool. He’s kind of odd but he knows what he’s doing. I think the classes are Tuesdays and Fridays at eight.”

“You call and book it.”

“If that’s all it takes to get you there,” Rin declares, “consider it done.”

* * *

Haru knows every face in his class.

Even if he doesn’t know them all on a first-name basis, their faces suffice for identification purposes. If pressed, he could probably pick out his students by the back of their heads. The nametags help too, but Haru rarely finds his eyes at that level when he has so many walking fire hazards in the same room at one time.

It’s the third week of class. Haru has been expecting a replacement for a spot that cropped up when a previous student traumatised herself in an incident involving a blender with an unsecured lid, frozen blackberries, and red wine. Last week a man rang to book in after seeing the ad online, citing Haru as an acquaintance from the gym and bemoaning Thai food and a diet packed full of sodium and trans fat in a phone call so long Haru wrote an entire lesson plan in its duration. He barely paid attention to the conversation beyond taking down a bank account number for the payment and making a note to himself that someone would be showing up for the next Tuesday class.

Haru doesn’t think this is the man who made the call.

The newest face looks like he’s been forced here at gunpoint. He doesn’t introduce himself when he walks in late, just skulks to the back with hands shoved in his sweatshirt pockets, and sets himself up at a station while Haru instructs the rest of the class through preparations. It’s easy enough to ignore him while Haru has other things to focus on. Once the class gets underway and Haru moves from bench to bench, keeping an eye on temperatures and adjusting novice hands getting trigger-happy with whisks, he finds the new face distracting and a bit irritating.

Haru looks up every so often to check, to observe him. His latest pupil doesn’t seem interested in doing more than half-heartedly stirring up a garnish while everyone else is two steps ahead of him. His eyes are focused out the window, and he only looks down at what he’s doing when his wrist bumps the side of the pan or there’s a threat of burning himself.

Towards the end, Haru returns to the front for a nametag sticker and a marker and makes his way down the side of the room so as not to draw attention to himself. He doesn’t want the entire class to hear what transpires between them, in the interest of maintaining a professional decorum and because he values a level of privacy for himself. Fortunately everyone in here is still a beginner, and too preoccupied with not charring their fish fillets to notice him coming within range of the new student.

He is noticed from feet away by his intended target, saving him the trouble of making eye-contact first.

“You’re new?” he asks, holding out the sticker and marker without further prompting. He isn’t being paid to make friends. “Your first or last name will do.”

“Yeah.” A nod, and Haru discovers for the first time that this man is more straightforward than he appears. He learns the name is Yamazaki Sousuke within a few seconds of the kanji being scribbled down, and it’s strangely formal but oddly fitting of a person who glances at Haru like he’s somehow in the way of his own classroom’s activities. “Didn’t mean to be late, traffic.”

Haru accepts the marker back. “It’s fine. Next time, Sousuke—” and he turns but holds a gaze over his shoulder, “be here on time. Or don’t come in.”

“Got it,” Sousuke says with a salute that should feel mocking.

Haru kicks down any desire to be amused by a six-foot-one man with three days’ worth of stubble wearing an oversized black sweatshirt, capri jeans, and red Air Jordans. Instead, he goes to assist another of his students who’s going to be in dire need of a fire extinguisher and a wig if he doesn’t intervene fast.

He can tell Sousuke doesn’t need the help. He isn’t certain that Sousuke even wants it or what he’s doing here, but Haru isn’t being paid to uncover those things either.

* * *

Exhaustion has set in. Rin is dragging his feet when he rounds the corridor to the final flight of stairs, and it takes a strenuous effort not to fall on his face when he reaches the landing. As soon as he makes it inside the apartment, he throws his duffel bag to the table and toes off his shoes. Then he stumbles to the couch and drapes himself over it, gazing down at Sousuke with a plaintive expression.

“God,” he mumbles. “I’m so fuckin’ tired.”

Sousuke acknowledges him with a grunt and a flip of the television channel. “Dinner’s on the bench.”

The mention of food almost reverses Rin’s deflated state. “Something new?”

“Fish curry,” Sousuke replies, eyes almost closing under his own drowsiness. He forces them open again. “Eat it or I’m never cooking again.”

“You always say that,” Rin snorts. It takes the last of his energy to make it to the kitchen, where he finds a bowl with aluminium foil pulled tight across the top. “And I’m so fuckin’ _hungry_.”

“Tired or hungry?” A loud, drawn-out yawn. “Make up your mind.”

“Fuck you, I can be both at once.”

“Can not.”

“Can too!”

“They’ve done studies on it.”

Rin gapes at the microwave as it counts down on sensor reheat. “Only one emotion at a time? There’s no way that’s true. I’ve definitely been horny and pissed off at the same time before—”

“That,” Sousuke says, turning up the volume, “is too much information.”

“It’s the perfect amount of information,” Rin scoffs. The bowl is scalding hot when he takes it out and waits for it to cool while he rummages through a drawer for chopsticks. “It proves my point exactly. You _can_ be tired and hungry at once, idiot. I don’t care what science says, I know my body.”

“Yeah,” Sousuke confesses, directing a smirk at him. “I was messing with you.”

“You dirty fuckin’ rock spider,” Rin snarls, tearing the foil off. “One of these days, I’m going to kick you out of this house, I swear.”

Boiling curry be damned, he’s eating before he dumps the bowl’s contents over Sousuke’s head. Third degree burns are just what the doctor ordered for this brand of jackassery, even if Rin knows better. He always swears up and down not to be taken in by Sousuke’s obvious baiting. It’s the only New Year’s resolution he’s never been able to keep, and every time it’s easy to forget that his best friend is a persistent and innovative shit-stirrer. If he weren’t good at his job, Rin would have fired his ass years ago.

Sousuke clicks the television off to watch Rin with a languid curiosity. “Like hell, then you’d be racking up bills on your own credit card.”

Rin growls through a mouthful of fish meat which, to his surprise, holds some flavour to it. “I could manage.”

“So?” Sousuke asks, yawning wide again. “Does it taste like shit?”

Sousuke can cook, but feeding his ego on the subject is dangerous.

Rin gives a noncommittal shrug. “It’s not your best work.”

Something flares in Sousuke’s expression, a set of his jaw.

“Yeah, you could definitely do better,” Rin says with a loftiness critical to raising Sousuke’s ire. His brow creases as he snares a peculiarly-shaped piece of onion between the chopsticks. “Is this...did you cut this like a flower? What the hell kind of education am I paying for you to have, Sousuke?!”

“Google taught me that,” Sousuke answers, returning the jibe with a measure of nonchalance intended to get under Rin’s skin. “But you can thank the class for idea on presentation.”

* * *

Sousuke is five minutes early on Friday.

Most of Haru’s students arrive a few minutes late, so the perfunctory rap on the door and Sousuke’s face through the window inset startles him. He lays out the rest of the aprons on the stations in the back row and beckons Sousuke in with a jerk of his chin.

“Thought you were going to make me stand out there all night,” Sousuke remarks, tugging off a black beanie. He stuffs it in a pocket and grins boyishly, making himself at home already. Haru isn’t sure if he left a stove burning or if the room just got a bit warmer, because a definite chill seeped in along with Sousuke a moment ago. “It’s goddamn cold.”

“It’s winter,” Haru notes, meeting Sousuke by the front bench where his own utensils and ingredients are set up. “And it was open. I’m here an hour before we start, so come in when you want.”

“Got nothing better to do? Or is this your full-time job?” Sousuke asks, entirely missing the scathing look Haru aims at his back as he walks along the blackboard-turned-noticeboard. He leans in to get a closer look at one of the junior swim school ads Haru keeps tacked up there as a favour to Makoto, and Haru finds his thoughts straying down the aberrant path of wondering whether Sousuke is old enough to have children of his own yet. “Your metabolism must be quick.”

That strikes him as an odd thing to say to a virtual stranger, but then Sousuke has been unorthodox for the entire hour Haru has spent in his company. It was either an idle remark or a blatant and ineffectual attempt to flirt with him, and he can’t discern which. Sometimes he has trouble understanding what Makoto is feeling despite what his mouth says, and he knows Makoto like the back of his hand. Makoto makes it easy too, with an open, expressive face and a pair of eyes that are the literal windows to his soul, and Haru still can’t make sense of it.

He stares at Sousuke before the chance to follow it up passes, and his eyes slide away.

“Must be,” he says slowly, rifling through a drawer for a fork he doesn’t need. “And no, I work part-time in a restaurant. This is supplemental income.”

“Pay good?”

“Good enough.”

Sousuke is silent for a moment. “Want to earn more?”

That one was more brazen than the last. The knife in his hand feels heavier than it really is.

Haru has nowhere else to look but Sousuke’s face. He wishes one of his students would develop a sense of punctuality, or that Makoto might spontaneously decide that he needs to pick Haru up from work right now so they can go for a drive and look at Christmas lights like Makoto’s been begging him to for years.

Haru finds it perfectly agreeable all of a sudden.

“You’re trying to solicit me.”

Sousuke uses an arm to sweep aside Haru’s breadboard and a salad bowl to make room for himself. One of Haru’s eyebrows furrows, and his mouth pinches tight to hold back a sigh of exasperation. Trying to decode Sousuke is like trying to read an English book on physics backwards, and Haru would frankly rather saw off a limb with a dull butcher knife than put himself through those kinds of mental gymnastics.

“In a way,” Sousuke says, the bulk of his body now casually sprawled across Haru’s freshly-cleaned counter. “Private lessons. My roommate’s survival apparently depends on me learning to cook food that agrees with his delicate palate.”

Haru lets out a breath. “Are you that bad?”

“What? No,” Sousuke chuckles. “Rin is just goddamn fussy and we’re both sick of fast food. We mostly work night shifts, and he’s a lazy shit, so he made this is my problem.” He scrubs a hand across his stubble and shrugs. “And he paid for it so I’m obligated. There might have also been a binding verbal contract under pain of death. And trust me,” he says solemnly, “Rin could make that happen.”

“Do you care about how it tastes?” Haru’s not interested in what circumstances brought Sousuke here, and it shows plainly on his face in the downturn of his mouth. His sense of inquiry is strong when the integrity of his work is involved. He can't see this as anything other than a quick means to an end.

Sousuke gives it thought. “Not really.”

Haru's drown deepens. “Seems like a labour of love.”

“Maybe,” Sousuke allows, sifting a hand through his hair. It still looks like he just rolled out of bed, unkempt. “So, how about it? Got a fully functional kitchen at my place if you don’t want me destroying yours.” He grins roguishly. “The quicker I expand my repertoire, the quicker I’m out of your class. Win-win.”

 _Do I know you well enough to want you out?_   Haru wonders.

He has more important questions on his mind. “How much?”

Sousuke is unfazed. “How much do you want?”

“Private tuition is expensive,” Haru warns, finding a moment’s solace in rearranging the items Sousuke pushed aside, since he’s still physically in the way of any semblance of organisation. “You’ll have to do more than you did in class.”

“I’ll learn faster,” Sousuke counters.

Haru is almost out of excuses. “It’s intensive.”

“Hard work doesn’t bother me.”

“There’s a two-hour minimum to make it worth my while.”

“Not a problem.”

“And a travel fee.”

“Noted.”

“You’ll still have to come for the class that’s been paid for—”

“Nanase,” Sousuke cuts in. “Stop stalling and give me an answer.”

Haru opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

Sousuke extends a hand to Haru, one side of his mouth curled into a smirk. “How about Saturday?”

"That incurs weekend rates."

" _Nanase_."

“Fine,” Haru exhales, and reaches out to close the deal. Sousuke’s palm is warmer than he expected, and he averts his gaze and snatches his hand back.

He hesitates before he goes to let the other students in. They’re been arriving for the last few minutes, milling around the door and cautiously peering in to see if they’re going to interrupt. Their timing couldn’t be better, as annoyed as he usually is with stragglers. Even if it’s only a few minutes, it cuts into his teaching time.

Sousuke has already demanded the majority of his energy for interaction. His quota for the whole month, in fact. That was the longest five minutes of his life, and must have shaved at least ten years off his natural lifespan.

Haru stops short of the door to wonder how he’s going to fare alone with Sousuke in unfamiliar territory. He’ll probably be drained enough to end up lying on the living room floor for a few hours later tonight, maybe with a glass of moscato for company.

“Your place, eight.”

“My place, eight.” Without having to be told, Sousuke slides off the bench. Like the last time, he heads for the back row again, shedding his jacket. “Remind me to give you my number. I’ll text you the address.”

Haru’s hand steadies on the handle while there’s still a silent room between them. He savours the last moment of peace before the chaos of voices and clanging pots descends on him.

“And it’s Haru,” he adds in a mutter. “Not Nanase.”

He feels sharp, inquisitive eyes on him. Sousuke’s interest is like a hot flare against his skin, and Haru decides it’s high time he opened the door. The familiar bedlam that follows—rushed apologies, the rustle of coats being exchanged for aprons, the scuff of shoes on the floor—almost drowns Sousuke’s voice out.

“Got it.”

* * *

Haru suppresses the impulse to put a butter knife through his eye socket.

Rei would shriek that it’s not a beautiful way to die, and Makoto would probably understand what really happened, but Nagisa would approve of and applaud the newspaper headline: _local chef tragically passes away doing what he loves most_. It would be a lie, but a far cry better than being found out his death was a direct result of his student’s improper handling of kitchenware.

 _It’s his third lesson._ Haru closes his eyes. _The first private one. You were expecting worse._

When he opens his eyes again, it takes all his self-control not to physically correct Sousuke. He grips the counter behind him with both hands tightly and forces a breath out through his nose.

“Your grip,” he says in exasperation, “is awful.”

Sousuke scoffs and wields the knife like a sword in Haru’s direction. It’s longer and sharper than Haru would normally allow a beginner to use, particularly in a private home where his insurance doesn’t cover injuries or accidents, but Sousuke has proven that he possesses some skill when it comes to not slicing his own fingers off, though Haru supposes that could also be a measure of self-preservation. In less than ten minutes, Sousuke has demonstrated that he’s never been taught the first thing about technique, confirming Haru’s initial suspicions.

“It’s how I’ve always done it.”

“And it’s a miracle you still have both your hands,” Haru comments. “Give it.”

There’s no verbal protest but Sousuke rolls his eyes as he hands off the knife. He at least knows to offer it handle first. Haru takes it and models how it should be held so it doesn’t pose a threat to the ulnar artery.

“You haven’t hurt yourself yet,” Haru says, making an active effort to sound concerned instead of castigating. “But you will eventually.” He imitates Sousuke’s grip, which feels inherently wrong even as an example. “Keep your thumb away from the topside. It doesn’t look like it could cut you but it can.” Then he makes a slow, purposeful movement to change his grip, and he looks up to find Sousuke’s eyes tracking him closely. “This is the one you should use. Here, try it.”

Sousuke is a better mimic than Haru gave him credit for. “Like that?”

“Almost,” Haru says, slipping his thumb over Sousuke’s to adjust it quickly. “There.”

“Haven’t seen this on Iron Chef,” Sousuke says, tilting his wrist to inspect the new hold.

Haru almost wants to ask why anyone would watch a cooking show in their downtime. It’s not something he would personally do to relax, but he doesn’t know what Sousuke does for a living. Maybe he works the graveyard shift at a hospital. Come to think of it, Sousuke could pass for a bartender with the questionable fashion and the permanent five o’clock shadow. He even looks tired to match it, like he doesn’t sleep much and beer on-tap is all that keeps him conscious. Haru recalls Sousuke mentioning there were night shifts involved; it makes sense.

“He uses a blade grip,” Haru explains, “and that’s because he’s experienced.”

Sousuke glances sideways at him. “I’m experienced.”

“What can you make?” Haru asks, crossing his arms.

“Fried rice,” Sousuke retorts. “Steak, tonkatsu, chankonabe, yakisoba if Rin really begs me for it.”

Haru waits for him to continue, chin tilted down. “And?”

“And what?”

“That’s it?” Haru says, staring. “You rotate five dishes?”

Sousuke hesitates. “And the two I learned from you. Sometimes I make extra rice.”

“Extra rice,” Haru echoes slowly. He shakes off the puzzlement and directs Sousuke’s attention back to the breadboard with the point of a finger. “So that brings it to seven.”

“Look,” Sousuke slices a shallot diagonally instead of Haru’s jugular, “we might have a simple—”

“Unhealthy, too,” Haru interjects, pushing an empty takeout box out from under the counter.

“A simple and unhealthy diet,” Sousuke grumbles, chancing a look at him. “If Rin had his way, it would be worse.”

Haru’s eyes dart to the fridge, absorbing the plethora of magnets and the handwriting on the calendar. It’s all written in red, haphazard and so messy he can’t decipher it. Not that he cares to. The famed roommate is likely responsible for it, since Sousuke doesn’t seem like the type to keep track of anything, applying an endearingly unsystematic touch to all Haru has seen him do.

He bites down a small smile. “I believe you.”

* * *

“Gou, I gotta go to work and he’s _dying_. Wait, no, don’t hang up, it’s serious this time—”

Sousuke stares at the ceiling. He peeks out of his carefully-constructed blanket cocoon to see Rin pacing back and forth across the dining room floor, cell phone held to his ear.

“Huh? Of course I’m serious! I don’t have time to stay with him, I’m on highway patrol today running mobile breath tests and—Gou, have a heart! He needs to be looked after.” A pause. “Alright, if you’re heartless then at least be reasonable. Fuck, am I the only one who cares?!”

“Rin,” Sousuke groans with the intent of being heard, catching Rin’s attention. He hurries over to kneel by the couch, and pats Sousuke’s forehead in what must be a search for fever. “Will you calm the fuck down?”

“He’s talking to me,” Rin states with an awed expression. Down the line, Sousuke can hear Gou sighing long and loud. He snatches the phone off Rin.

“It’s a cold,” he says with finality, dragging Rin into a headlock despite the whine of protest. “A mild one. I’m fine. Your brother is overreacting as usual.”

“That’s what I thought,” Gou laughs. “Do you want me to come and keep you company, Sou? I can take the afternoon off work.”

“Yes!” Rin insists. “He needs the—ngh, _ow_ , my windpipe—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sousuke reassures her, even though he can admit his voice sounds nasally. “Some bed rest and it’ll clear up. I can still walk, don’t write me off yet.”

Rin sulks under his arm but relinquishes in his badgering to convince Gou to come over. Sousuke talks to her a little longer to let Rin squirm in discomfort and then in horror when he realises there’s a chance he could catch something from Sousuke. By the time he hangs up with Gou, Rin is making a valiant attempt to escape from Sousuke’s clutch, but he only lets up when Rin agrees not to tell any of their colleagues why Sousuke has taken leave suddenly.

He doesn’t _get_ sick. This cold is a minor inconvenience, and he doesn’t need to spread it around headquarters by going in. A sick cop is a useless cop, and a squad full of sick cops is understaffing they can’t afford. Much as he hates it, a day or two of rest is the sensible choice.

“I want you to call me if you start seeing a bright light,” Rin says threateningly, smoothing down his hair post-headlock and snatching his phone back.

Sousuke feels around the crack of the couch for his own phone. “Sure.”

“Or if you get dizzy.”

“Yeah.”

“Or if you start coming up in a rash on your—”

“I get it,” Sousuke grunts. “If I’m dying, you’ll be the first to know.”

He pulls up Haru’s number, keeps the screen well out of view behind the blanket, and types the first thought that comes to mind. _can you make it earlier? have a day off_

Rin wavers by the front door, keys dangling from a finger. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

His phone chimes. _i can fit you in earlier if i have to_

“Alright,” Rin says, sounding unconvinced. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Bye,” Sousuke mumbles, and waits.

The door finally closes. Sousuke breathes out, then tackles the next message to Haru. _how’s 5?_

_i’ll be there_

Sousuke grins to himself. _you have my eternal gratitude_

 _keep it_ , Haru tells him.

Sousuke imagines he’d say it sternly or in a manner almost chiding, with that half-disinterested glance.

But then again, Sousuke imagines a lot of things about Haru. First and foremost how Haru might treat an unwell man. Maybe he can garner a bit of sympathy from Haru and wring something human out of that take-no-prisoners and frankly unforgiving attitude.

He passes the time by scrolling his way down Haru’s Instagram page, which was a relatively easy find after a Google search and some filtering for strange-looking mascots sharing Haru’s username of **iwatobi-chan**. It’s hard not to be impressed with the flagrant food pornography, or to admire the eye to detail and Haru’s knack for presentation. Sousuke tries not to be self-conscious about the fact his own food ends up a heap of slop on the plate. Like he has time for something Haru makes a livelihood doing. He’s got enough problems preventing a war breaking out between him and Rin on a daily basis, let alone keeping peace in the city as per his job description.

He falls into a light doze somewhere between a food festival last year and Gordon Ramsay memes, and his phone drops from his hand to the floor. The doorbell rouses him some time later, and he cracks one eye open.

His mouth is dry. “Come in.”

“Sousuke?” Haru calls from the other side, testing the handle with a jiggle. A moment goes by, and then Haru emerges and blinks at Sousuke’s pile of blankets. He deduces the situation in an instant, almost as quickly as Rin can uncover one of Sousuke’s hidden candy stashes. “You’re sick.”

Leave it to Haru to be so astute despite all evidence to the contrary.

“Slightly under the weather,” Sousuke argues, watching as Haru places a bag of groceries by a stool. “Fully functional,” he adds sullenly, ripping a blanket to his chin and glaring. “Otherwise I’d tell you not to bother.”

“You should have said so,” Haru mutters, crossing the living room to survey him with a careful eye. Sousuke feels like an animal in a zoo exhibit, and sits up a bit to prove he still has that capacity. “I’m not teaching you like this.”

“I’ll wear a mask.”

“You could still get germs in the food,” Haru says. “On my clothes. I can’t afford to get sick.”

“It’s a cold.”

“Then why aren’t you at work?”

Sousuke finds himself momentarily out of words, then scowls. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Too bad. No cooking today.”

Haru’s a foot away, maybe less. When he makes to leave, Sousuke’s hand darts out to catch Haru’s wrist. He holds on well after Haru glances down at him sharply in mild surprise. “Then keep me company.”

Haru’s eyebrows raise, the trace of an amused smile at his lips. “Are you paying me?”

“Aren’t we past that?” Sousuke teases, smirking. He lets go of Haru and shifts to create space at the other end of the couch. “I put the money in your account this morning.”

“Fine.” Haru seems caught between refusing and agreeing for a fleeting moment. Sousuke doesn’t dare to breathe until Haru brushes aside the blanket and seats himself, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

The tiny victories with Haru make Sousuke unable to resist. “So you’ll refund me?”

“Put a movie on, Sousuke.”

“I was thinking Iron Chef reruns.”

Haru spares him an admonishing look and tugs the other end of the blanket across his legs. Underneath, their knees touch. “One episode.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://sierrasuke.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/sierrasuke)


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